"Uberwald for the werewolves. Ah, yes...'joy through strength.' I expect they promised you all sorts of things...You may take your hands off the Scone. I do not wish to distress you further. But...why? My predecessors spoke highly of you, you are a dwarf of power and influence...and then you let yourself become a p.a.w.n of the werewolves. Why?"

"Why should they be allowed to get away with it?" Dee snapped, his voice breaking with the strain.

The king looked across at Vimes.

"Oh, I suspect the werewolves will regret that they-" he began.

"Not them them! The...ones in Ankh-Morpork! Wearing...makeup and dresses and...and abominable things!" Dee pointed a finger at Cheery. "Ha'ak! How can you even How can you even look look at it! You let at it! You let her her," and Vimes had seldom heard a word sprayed with so much venom, "her flaunt herself, flaunt herself, here here! And it's happening everywhere because people have not been firm, not obeyed, have let the old ways slide! Everywhere there are reports...they're eating away at everything dwarfish with their...their soft clothes and paint and beastly ways. How can you be king and allow this? Everywhere they are doing it and you do nothing! Why should they they be allowed to do this?" Now Dee was sobbing. " be allowed to do this?" Now Dee was sobbing. "I can't! And I work so hard...so hard..." can't! And I work so hard...so hard..."

Vimes saw that Cheery, to his amazement, was blinking back tears.

"I see," said the king. "Well, I suppose that is an explanation."

He nodded to the guards. "Take...her away. Some things must wait a day or two." away. Some things must wait a day or two."

Cheery saluted, suddenly.

"Permission to go with her, sire?"

"What on earth for, young...young dwarf?"

"I expect she'd like someone to talk to, sir. I know I would."

"Indeed? Well, if your commander has no objection...Off you go, then."

The king leaned back when the guards had left with their prisoner and the prisoner's new counselor.

"Well, Your Excellency?"

"This is is the real Scone?" the real Scone?"

"You are not certain?"

"Dee was!"

"Dee...is in a difficult state of mind." The king looked at the ceiling. "I think I will tell you this because, Your Excellency, I really do not want you going through the rest of your time here asking silly questions. Yes, this is the true Scone."

"But how could-"

"Wait! So was the one that is, yes, ground to dust in the cave by Dee in her...madness," the king went on. "So were the...let me see...five before that. Still untouched by time after fifteen hundred years? What romantics we dwarfs are! Even the very best dwarf bread crumbles after a few hundred."

"Fakes?" said Vimes. "They were all all fakes?" fakes?"

Suddenly the king was holding his mining ax again. "This, milord, is my family's ax. We have owned it for almost nine hundred years, see. Of course, sometimes it needed a new blade. And sometimes it has required a new handle, new designs on the metalwork, a little refreshing of the ornamentation...but is this not the nine-hundred-year-old ax of my family? And because because it has changed gently over time, it is still a pretty good ax, y'know. it has changed gently over time, it is still a pretty good ax, y'know. Pretty Pretty good. Will you tell me if good. Will you tell me if this this is a fake, too?" is a fake, too?"

He sat back again.

Vimes remembered the look on Albrecht's face.

"He knew knew."

"Oh yes. A number of...more senior dwarfs know. The knowledge runs in families. The first Scone crumbled after three hundred years when the king of the time touched it. My ancestor was a guard who witnessed it, see. He...got accelerated promotion, you could say. I'm sure you understand me. After that, we were a little more prepared. We should have been looking for a new one in fifty years or so in any case. I'm glad glad this one was made in the large dwarf city of Ankh-Morpork, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if it turns out to be an excellent keeper. Look, they've even got the currants right, see?" this one was made in the large dwarf city of Ankh-Morpork, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if it turns out to be an excellent keeper. Look, they've even got the currants right, see?"

"But Albrecht could have exposed you!"

"Expose what what? He is not king, but I will be very surprised if one of his family is not king again, in the fullness of time. What goes around comes around, as the Igors say." The king leaned forward.

"You have been laboring under a misapprehension, I reckon. You think that because Albrecht dislikes Ankh-Morpork and has...old-fashioned ideas, he is a bad dwarf. But I have known him for two hundred years. He is honest and honorable...more so than me, that I'm sure of. Five hundred years ago he would have made a fine king. Today, perhaps not. Perhaps...hah...the ax of my ancestors needs a different handle. But now I am king and he accepts that with all his heart because if he did not, he'd think he wasn't a dwarf, see? Of course he will now oppose me at every turn. Being Low King was never an easy job. But, to use one of your your metaphors, we are all floating in the same boat. We may certainly try to push one another over the side, but only a maniac like Dee would make a hole in the bottom." metaphors, we are all floating in the same boat. We may certainly try to push one another over the side, but only a maniac like Dee would make a hole in the bottom."

"Corporal Littlebottom thought there'd be a war-" said Vimes, weakly.

"Well, there are always hotheads. But while we argue who steers the boat, we don't deny that it's an important voyage...I see you are tired. Let your good lady take you home. But...as a nightcap...what is it, Your Excellency, that Ankh-Morpork wants?"

"Ankh-Morpork wants the names of the murderers," mumbled Vimes.

"No, that is what Commander Vimes wants. What it is that Ankh-Morpork Ankh-Morpork wants? Gold? So often it is gold. Or iron, perhaps? You use a lot of iron." wants? Gold? So often it is gold. Or iron, perhaps? You use a lot of iron."

Vimes blinked. His brain had finally given up. There was nothing left anymore. He wasn't certain he could even stand up.

He remembered a word.

"Fat," he said blankly.

"Aha. The Fifth Elephant. Are you sure? There's some good iron now. Iron makes you strong. Fat only makes you slippery."

"Fat," parroted Vimes, feeling the darkness closing in. "Lots of fat."

"Well, certainly. The price is ten Ankh-Morpork cents a barrel but, Your Excellency, since I have come to know you, I feel that perhaps-"

"Five cents a barrel for grade one high-rendered, three cents for grade two, ten cents per barrel for heavy tallow, safe and delivered to Ankh-Morpork," said Sybil. "And all from the Shmaltzberg Bend levels and measured on the Ironcrust scale. I have some doubt about the long-term quality of the Big Tusk wells."

Vimes tried to focus on his wife. She seemed, inexplicably, a long way away.

"Wha'?"

"Er...I caught up with some reading when I was in the emba.s.sy, Sam. The, er, notebooks. Sorry."

"Would you beggar us, madam?" said the king, throwing up his hands.

"We may be flexible on delivery," said Lady Sybil.

"Klatch would pay at least nine for grade one," said the king.

"But the Klatchian amba.s.sador isn't sitting here," said Sybil.

The king smiled. "Or married to you, my lady, much to his loss. Six, five and fifteen."

"Six dropping to five after twenty thousand, three and half across the board for grade two, I can give you thirteen on tallow."

"Acceptable, but give me fourteen on white tallow and I'll allow seven on the new pale suets we are finding. They are making an acceptable candle, look you."

"Six, I'm afraid. You haven't plumbed the full extent of those deposits, and I think it may be reasonable to expect high levels of scrattle and BCBs in the lower layers. Besides, I think your forecasts about the amount of those deposits are erring on the optimistic side."

"Wha' BCBs?" murmured Vimes.

"Burnt Crunchy Bits," said Sybil. "Mostly unbelievably huge and ancient animals, deep fried."

"You astonish me, Lady Sybil," said the king. "I did not know you were trained in fat extraction?"

"Cooking Sam's breakfasts is an education in itself, Your Majesty."

"Oh well, far be if for a mere king to argue. Six, then. Price to remain stable for two years-" The king saw Sybil's mouth open. "All right, all right, three years. I'm not an unreasonable king."

"Prices on the dock?"

"How can I refuse?"

"Agreed, then."

"The paperwork will be with you in the morning. And now we really must go our separate ways," said the king. "I can see His Excellency has had a long day. Ankh-Morpork will be swimming in fat. I can't imagine what you'll use it all for..."

"Make light," said Vimes, and, as darkness fell at last, fell forward gently into the welcoming arms of sleep.

Sam Vimes woke up to the smell of hot fat.

Softness enveloped him. It practically imprisoned him.

For a moment he thought it was snow, except that snow wasn't usually this warm. Finally, he identified it as the cloudlike softness of the mattress on the amba.s.sadorial bed.

He let his attention drift back to the fat smell. It had...overtones. There was a definite burnt component. Since Sam Vimes's range of gastronomic delight mainly ranged from "well fried" to "caramelized," it was definitely promising.

He shifted position and regretted it immediately. Every muscle in his body squealed in protest. He lay still and waited for the fire in his back to die down.

Bits and pieces of the last two days a.s.sembled themselves in his head. Once or twice he winced. Had he really really gone through the ice like that? Was it Sam Vimes who'd stepped up to fight the werewolf, despite the fact that the thing was strong enough to bend a sword in a circle? And had Sybil won a lot of fat off the king? And... gone through the ice like that? Was it Sam Vimes who'd stepped up to fight the werewolf, despite the fact that the thing was strong enough to bend a sword in a circle? And had Sybil won a lot of fat off the king? And...

Well, here he was in a nice warm bed and by the smell of it there was breakfast on the way.

Another piece of recollection floated into place.

Vimes groaned, and forced his legs out of the bed. No, Wolfgang couldn't have survived that, surely...

Naked, he staggered into the bathroom and spun the huge taps. Hot pungent water gushed out.

A minute later, he was lying full length again. It was rather too hot, but he could remember the snows, and maybe from now on he could never be hot enough.

Some of the pain washed away.

Someone rapped on the door.

"It's me, Sam."

"Sybil?"

She came in, carrying a couple of very large towels and some fresh clothes.

"Good to see you up again. Igor's frying sausages. He doesn't like doing it. He thinks they should be boiled. And he's doing slumpie and fikkun haddock and distressed pudding. I didn't want the food to go to waste, you see. I don't think I want to stay for the rest of the celebrations."

"I know what you mean. How's Carrot?"

"Well, he says he doesn't want sausages."

"What? He's al-he's up?"

"Sitting up, at least. Igor's a marvel. Angua said it was a bad break, but he's just got some sort of device that...well, Carrot's not even got a sling on now!"

"Sounds a useful man to have around," said Vimes, pulling on his civilized trousers.

"Angua says Igor's got an icehouse in the cellars and there's frozen jars of, of...well, let's just say he suggested that you might like liver and onions for breakfast and I said no."

"I like liver and onions," said Vimes. He thought about it. "Up until now, anyway."

"I think the king wants us to go, as well. In a polite way. A lot of very respectful dwarfs came round here with paperwork first thing this morning."

Vimes nodded grimly. It made sense. If he he were king he'd want Vimes out of here, too. Here's some grateful thanks, a nice trading agreement, terribly sorry to see you go, do call again, only not too soon... were king he'd want Vimes out of here, too. Here's some grateful thanks, a nice trading agreement, terribly sorry to see you go, do call again, only not too soon...

Breakfast was everything he'd dreamed of. Then he went to see the invalid.

Carrot was pale, gray under the eyes, but smiling. He was sitting up in bed, drinking fatsup.

"h.e.l.lo, Mister Vimes! We won, then?"

"Didn't Angua tell you?"

"She went off with the wolves when I was asleep, Lady Sybil said."

Vimes recounted the events of the night as best he could.

Afterward, Carrot said: "Gavin was a very n.o.ble creature. I am sorry he is dead. I'm sure we would have got on well."

You mean every word of it, Vimes thought. I know you do. But it works out all right for you, doesn't it? It always does. If it had been the other way about, if it had been Gavin that attacked Wolf first, then I know know it would have been you that went over the falls with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But it wasn't you, was it. If you were dice, you'd always roll sixes. it would have been you that went over the falls with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But it wasn't you, was it. If you were dice, you'd always roll sixes.

And the dice don't roll themselves. If it wasn't against everything he wanted to be true about the world, Vimes might just then have believed in some huge destiny controlling people. And G.o.ds help the other people who were around when a big destiny was alive in the world, bending every poor b.u.g.g.e.r around itself...

He wondered, not for the first time, but perhaps for the first time so articulately that his lips almost moved, if he might ever, one day, have to stand in its way...